


Afterwards

by Lexa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexa/pseuds/Lexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trailing after Sherlock causes Lestrade more trouble than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterwards

**Author's Note:**

> My first completed foray into the fandom. Not beta'd nor Brit picked. Please report any obvious errors.
> 
> In the States, Lestrade would have reported in the location he had taken Sherlock to so that dispatch would know where to find him if needed. I am assuming they would do the same in the U.K.

Pain and darkness had greeted Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade into consciousness on more than one occasion in his life, but it was always different. One or the other would be more or less from the previous times. Usually more on the darkness aspect than the pain. But again, this time was different.

There was something heavy and solid on his leg than made him almost bite his tongue off when he tried to move. His back felt raw and something was wrong with his right arm. The pain in his head was the thing that was close to usual, a concussion he would guess.

He was lying on a concrete floor, that much he could tell. But it was too dark to work out how far away the walls might be around him. The spike of pain warned him against lifting his head too high to get a better look.

That's when he heard the sound behind him.

He froze and tried to think what had happened to get him in this fix. Must have been chasing a suspect, right? And if that was them-

“Lestrade?”

Sherlock. It came back to him now. As if the night hadn't been long enough, Sherlock had demanded Lestrade take him to an industrial area to follow up on one of his famous deductions. The buildings were long since abandoned but not worth the expense of tearing down. He had been just about to tell Sherlock it was useless when he saw him running off and had followed.

“Lestrade? Are you conscious?”

“Yeah, only wishing I weren't. Where are you?” He tried again to look around, seeing if moving very slowly would help. It didn't.

“You pushed me.”

“What?”

“You pushed me. When-” He could hear Sherlock moving closer now, then the click of a lighter. Now he could see the wall in front of him, five feet away, concrete as well.

“When what? Are you okay?”

“Bump on the head.”

Now came the question he didn't want answered, not really. But still-

“And me? Can you see? And generalities will do. No need for specifics.”

“There is a large bit of concrete on your left leg. Your right arm is broken, possibly in a couple of places, from trying to break your fall no doubt. There are burn marks on your back and singeing of your hair and clothes.”

“Burn marks? The bloody hell? From what?”

“What do you remember?”

“Chasing after you. You can't do that, Sherlock! I keep telling you. If anything happens to you while I'm with you and still on duty, it would mean my job. Then my head once John and Mycroft found out.”

“I caught a faint odor of something. Something that shouldn't have seemed out of place but it was. Pathetic excuses for terrorists, actually they weren't even organized enough to be that. Home made explosives, petrol based. That’s what I had smelled. There shouldn't be any petrol left here.” Now Sherlock was moving around, probably taking in the room they were in. “They were going to set off the explosives to attempt an escape. We ran out the door and were crossing a room when it went off. You saw a down staircase to the left of us and shoved me toward it. I was halfway down when the blast reached us. I saw you fly past me then I was knocked unconscious. I woke up, near the bottom of the stairs, only a moment or two before I heard you move.”

“Christ. It's a wonder I'm-” He didn't finish the sentiment. He'd always considered it bad luck to talk about not making it home while on the job. “I take it they've gone. Can you get up the stairs, go for help?'

Silence for a moment, then Sherlock's voice from above and to the left. “The top of the stairs is blocked. There is a large hole in the wall. It is possible I could leap from the-”

“No you won't! Get back down here.”

“Lestrade, I estimate I have-”

“No! Sherlock you get down here. Now! It will not do anyone any good if you break your leg. Or your neck. Now get over here where I can see you.”

Lestrade could picture the look on Sherlock's face as he heard the slow exaggerated steps down the stairs. He was able to tilt his head up enough to make a quick scan of the younger man as Sherlock moved into his line of sight. There was a line of blood over his left eye and a bruise on the same cheek. There was a fine layer of concrete dust over him and on himself now that he could see. “Best turn that off, save it. Do you have your mobile?”

Lestrade tried to reach for his own. He could feel the mobile's outline under his right leg and tried to work his good hand toward it. He wasn't unable to reach it but what his fingers found made him close his eyes.

“There's no reception. Perhaps.” Sherlock's voice moved back toward the staircase. “It's faint but there.”

“Good. Call John, have him call Donovan. She should know something is wrong by now but there's no telling if she's heard about the explosion.”

As he listened to Sherlock attempt the call, Lestrade pulled his hand out from under him. He was glad he couldn't see the blood even though he knew how it would look. Dark red blood from the wound in his gut. A wound deep enough for his fingers to have pressed inside of and feel the hard something that caused it. He was bleeding out and had no way of telling how long he would last. He wiped his hand on the inside of his coat as best he could so Sherlock wouldn't notice right off.

“He knows there was an explosion, and to call Donovan. Beyond that I'm not sure what he was able to hear.” Sherlock came to sit back down by Lestrade.

“That should be enough. They'll find us, be able to get us out. Nothing to do but wait.”

“I hate waiting like this.”

Lestrade had to chuckle at that, regretting it immediately. “No, you never have been good with that.”

“It's just so- boring!”

“'Is this how time normally passes? Really slowly, in the right order?' “

“Whatever are you talking about?”

 Christ, he couldn't be going off his head already. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“I've heard that before. Where have I heard- John. No, he didn't say it. But-” Lestrade could almost hear the eye roll. “Oh, Lestrade. Not you too. Tell me you are not a fan of that ridiculous programme.”

“Oi, I will have you know that is not a ridiculous programme. Bloody brilliant, it is.”

“I am surrounded. John! You! Even Mycroft!”

“Mycroft watches it?” The lightheadness that came from trying to sit up in surprise almost canceled out the pain in his arm.

“Yes! Since I was young. Ridiculous.”

Lestrade laid as still as he could. He was just starting to feel cold. The question was, was it from shock or blood loss? The damage to his leg would not be helping matters, assuming there weren't other injuries he was unable to feel.

“Lestrade.”

There was an accusing tone to his name. Lestrade cursed inwardly, glad that in this light even Sherlock would have trouble reading his face. “What?”

“Is there something wrong with you?”

“You were the one who told me, remember?”

“I smell blood.”

“Not surprising, that.”

“More blood than strictly there should be.”

“And you've done the experiment, I take it.” Lestrade snorted, trying to make his voice dismissive enough. He failed.

The lighter flicked on again and he heard Sherlock move closer. He grabbed at the hand trying to reach underneath him, his eyes coming up. “Don't.”

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing that is of matter to you. Just sit tight til help arrives.”

“The blood.”

“Sure you're not smelling the blood on you?” Lestrade held his gaze for a second then blew out the flame.

Sherlock pulled out of Lestrade's grasp. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you, you just have to sit tight til they get here.”

“And will you be able to 'sit tight'?”

“That's what we're going to find out, isn't it?”

There was silence and for once Lestrade couldn't guess the expression on Sherlock's face. Not that would have made the next question an expected one.

“You called him Mycroft.”

“What?”

“Earlier, you said Mycroft would have your head, and again about that programme. You said Mycroft.”

“And? That's his name.”

“But you've never said it before. You almost make it a point to not say it. It's 'your brother' when you're talking to me and 'Mr. Holmes' when you talking to him.”

“I must have said his name before. You just don't remember it.”

“Unlikely.”

“You could have deleted it.”

Another silence, one that stretched on long enough for Lestrade to tell himself that he was feeling lightheaded from the concussion, the growing chill from the concrete floor. And that he could not feel the blood soaking more and more of his shirt and trousers.

“Lestrade.”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Do you have - feelings – for Mycroft?”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I know. That is why I am asking.”

“Sherlock.”

“Lestrade.”

Lestrade closed his eyes again.

“Do you?”

“And if I did? What of it?”

“He doesn't know.”

“It's not worth his interest.”

“No, his expectation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you thought of having sex with my brother?”

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I was talking about sex with Mycroft, not myself.”

“If I could reach you, I'd wring your neck.”

“Still not answering the question. You are not usually so dense as this, Detective Inspector.”

“Fine!” Lestrade knew he was playing into Sherlock's hand but he found he couldn't care. He shrugged to push himself up with his good arm, ignoring his body's protests. “Yes, I have. But it's more than just shagging.”

“How so?”

“It's afterwards.”

“Lestrade, I do not have enough data and you know it.”

“No, I don't expect you do. There is an afterwards to sex. There's holding the other person, having them hold you. Talking about stupid things, or may be nothing at all. It's falling asleep together and breakfast the next morning. Shared shower even. And there's a next time of doing it all over again.”

“How very domestic.”

“Maybe it is. But it's something us idiots want. Look for. Need even. Now you promise me you will never speak a word of this to your brother.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Promise me. Or so help me I will find a way to come back from wherever I end up and get you. You are not using this to embarrass your brother during one of your stupid fights.”

Sherlock scoffed. “There is no evidence that this is anything after death.”

“Promise me!”

“I promise!”

“Thank you!”

Lestrade's body sagged back to the floor, his eyes sliding shut. His breath came in short gasps and a shiver worked its way through him. But the pain was lessening and that was a plus, wasn't it?

“Promise me one more thing, Sherlock.”

A moment, then “What?”

“You could be a good man. Let John help you to be one.”

“I don't understand.”

Lestrade managed the smile, but not the chuckle. His body seemed heavier, that it took more of an effort to do anything. “It doesn't matter. He does. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“And don't be so hard on Mycroft. He does care for you. Has no one for himself. Not right, that. Shouldn't-”

“Lestrade?”

He wondered how Sherlock had managed to move so far away so fast.

 “Lestrade!”

 

 

Mycroft Holmes walked down the hospital corridor at a faster clip than was strictly necessary. He pushed a room door open and stepped inside.

His eyes made real all the injuries to Detective Inspector Lestrade that had been reported to him. The immobilized arm and leg. The bandage to his head. A lingering paleness to his face from the blood loss. The mild burns and stitched up abdomen he couldn't see but knew were there. The machine it was felt was needed to monitor his sleep. All that in the second before he turned his attention to his brother. “I am happy to see you relatively unharmed, brother.”

“Well, God does look after fools and small children.” John Watson glared at his flatmate.

“I have already apologized! Repeatedly. And besides, we stopped those idiots from doing whatever they planned to do. And they were killed instead of escaping. So something useful came of this.”

“Useful? Sherlock, Lestrade almost died! As it is, it will be weeks, months before he will be able to return to duty. And with him living alone? We're having him stay with us.”

“What?!”

“It's the least you can do, Sherlock Holmes and you bloody well know it.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance. I could see that his medical needs are attended to. Maybe someone to do for him on a weekly basis. With your frequent comings and goings, your flat might not be the best alternative.”

“There! Mycroft will take care of things.”

“Mycroft, you don't have to.”

He held up a hand. “It will be no trouble. And hardly more than I'm used to.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Another glare in Sherlock's direction. “I'll just have another word with his doctor, let him know. Excuse me.”

“Of course.” Mycroft moved closer to the bed, ostensibly to be out of John's way.

“Yes, of course. Why didn't I see it before?” Sherlock stood up, then grabbed Mycroft's hand and swung him into the chair at Lestrade's bedside.

“Sherlock! What is the meaning of this?”

For an answer, Sherlock took out his mobile. After a bit of fiddling he handed it to Mycroft. “He made me promise not to speak a word. And he likes that ridiculous programme of yours and John's.”

Mycroft waited for his brother to leave before daring to look down at the mobile. It was opened to the recording app, the play button evident. He pressed it, then found he had remind himself to breathe as he listened.

“ _Do you have - feelings – for Mycroft?”_

“ _You don't know what you're talking about.”_

When it was finished his hand reached out and took Lestrade's in a light grip. “Afterwards with you sounds very nice, Gregory. And if that is grounds for idiocy, then I suppose I am one as well. And have been for a long time.”


End file.
